


the scars, souvenirs

by alexanger



Series: a hell of a feeling [4]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Chronic Illness, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-19 23:36:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10650417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanger/pseuds/alexanger
Summary: “I’m definitely cheating on you,” James says.“With a plant?” asks Thomas.“With a plant,” James confirms.“Wow,” says Thomas. “I move my entire life up here and you cuckold me with a plant."





	the scars, souvenirs

“I don’t know if Little Prick is looking so good,” James says. He nudges one of the leaves, which is definitely more droopy than it was when the tiny plant came home.

“Just leave him be,” Thomas says.

“Don’t the leaves, like, deflate? There’s another word for it, but that’s close enough - you know, when they don’t have enough water, they get limper. Maybe I should give him more water.”

Thomas chews his lip. “Yeah, I guess,” he says. “Maybe put him in the sink and give him a good drink? Let it all drip through the bottom. Should help. Martha had a jade plant that got all wilty and that’s what she did. They’re both succulents, so it should be pretty similar.”

James takes Little Prick to the kitchen sink and turns the tap on low. Tepid water flows into the pot and sinks into the soil, and James smiles and strokes the sempervivum softly.

“Drink up, little buddy,” he says. “Get big and strong and make lots of tiny babies.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were married to that plant. Should I be jealous?” Thomas asks from the sofa. He’s fidgeting with his tangle and half-watching cartoons, but only in glances. He’s clearly far more interested in watching James.

“I’m definitely cheating on you,” James says.

“With a plant?” asks Thomas.

“With a plant,” James confirms.

“Wow,” says Thomas. “I move my entire life up here and you cuckold me with a plant. A plant I bought for you, I might add. You make me a cuck in my own home -”

“Stop talking,” James groans.

“I can’t believe I’m officially a cuck.” Thomas grins. “Let’s go buy me a fedora or something.”

“I’m kicking you out,” says James.

“Good thing I haven’t found a subletter yet, then.”

“It’s been weeks,” James says. “Shouldn’t you be choosing someone soon? Haven’t you had a billion applications or something?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to come home to a trashed place, and it’s not like I can interview them in person to see if they're sketchy.”

“Let me pick. Trust me, I’ll be able to tell which ones will just fuck up your place.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “Aren’t you gonna have to head back and get your valuable shit? Like, just in case? You didn’t bring much up with you. You don’t even have your laptop.”

“Yeah,” says Thomas. “I figured I’d fly down at the end of this week - your last appointment of the week is Wednesday, and we can use Thursday as a slow day so you get some spoons back. I’ll cook some food, toss it in the fridge so all you need to do is heat it up, and then I’ll fly up Friday and come back Sunday. That gives me a whole day to pack up everything I need and I’ll interview a couple people while I’m up there. Hopefully I find the right ones while I’m there, or it’s back to Skype interviews. Want me to bring you anything from New York?”

James fixes his gaze on the pot in the sink and tries to force back his tears. “Nah,” he says.

“You sure? I can bring you a t-shirt or something. I could second act a musical and get you some overpriced merch. Maybe I’ll hunt down a celebrity or two and pester autographs out of them -”

“Just bring yourself home,” says James. “That’s all I want.”

“Cool. I can do that, buddy. I’ll be quick as I can, okay?”

“Yeah,” says James. What else is there to say? He repeats it again, in the hopes that it makes him feel a little more solid. “Yeah.”

It doesn’t help.

 

* * *

 

Time always moves slowly - unless James wants it to. He never wants Friday to arrive so of _course_ time races ahead so fast that he can barely keep up.

Even his therapy on Wednesday, an hour that usually seems to last an eternity, whizzes by. James had been counting on it to slow things down a little, but once it’s over and there’s nothing really standing between him and Friday afternoon, everything seems to blur together. He blinks, and it’s Thursday night and they’re cuddled up on the sofa, listening to podcasts and dozing; blinks again, they’re waking up together Friday morning; another blink and they’re eating lunch on the sofa and Thomas’s cab is due to show up in a couple of hours.

“I’m worried about you going,” James mumbles through a mouthful of scrambled egg whites. Thomas nibbles idly at a piece of turkey bacon.

“Are you gonna be okay while I’m gone, Jellybean?” Thomas asks. “Like, if you can’t handle it -”

“No, I can handle it,” James insists. “I promise.” He picks at his scramble a little before putting down his fork.

“Don’t want any more?” Thomas asks.

James shrugs.

“Well, I’ll pack it up and chuck it in the fridge. Maybe you can have it as a snack with your afternoon meds. I put all your pills into your organizers, and I printed out a little mini calendar and wrote down all your medication times -”

“I’m not a _child,_ TJ, I know when to take my pills,” James snaps, and Thomas stops speaking immediately.

“Okay,” he manages finally, but the word sounds strained. He gives a half-hearted flap, the side-to-side one he does when he’s distressed, and James knows immediately he’s gone too far.

“I’m sorry, Thomas,” he says.

Thomas shakes his head, his eyes half-closed.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you. What can I do for you?”

Another head shake, another distressed flap. James knows these patterns well. The narrowed eyes and tensed shoulders mean imminent meltdown, and the shaking head means all of his words have disappeared.

“Can I touch you?” James asks. It reminds him of the morning Thomas first arrived - _touch okay?_ \- and he wonders if he could have picked a worse way to pay his best friend back for all of the effort he’s been putting in just to keep James alive.

Thomas draws a deep, shuddery breath, and then makes a soft noise. It’s not a yes and it’s not a no, so there are more questions James needs to ask.

“Do you need pressure?” is the next one James asks. Thomas nods furiously, so he continues, “from me?” When Thomas nods again, James says, “okay, I’m going to sit in your lap.”

He sizes Thomas up for a moment. Thomas is lounging, one leg tucked underneath him, the other propped up on the coffee table. It’s obvious at this point that James won’t be able to get him to move so the most reasonable thing to do is straddle him. It’s a struggle, but he manages to swing one leg over and perch on Thomas’s thighs.

“Is this okay?” he asks. Thomas groans and nods again. James shuffles forward a little, then lays against Thomas’s chest and rests his full weight there. He can feel the shuddering of Thomas’s breath and the thudding of his heart. For a while, they’re both jerky and rapid and laboured; but eventually, both his breathing and his heartbeat slow. It takes a little while, but suddenly James notices Thomas’s hands tangling into the fabric of his t-shirt to toy with the textures, a sure sign that things are on their way back to normal.

“I’m sorry I snapped,” James says.

“It’s okay,” Thomas mumbles. His words are thick and slurred.

“You don’t have to say it’s okay. I know it’s not. I’ll be more careful, okay?”

“I’m a delicate flower,” Thomas says.

“Yeah,” says James. “You bruise if I even look at you wrong. Tender weenie.”

“Fuck off, Jumbo Jet,” Thomas grunts. James can tell, from the sound of his voice, that he’s grinning.

“I don’t actually think you’re a weenie.”

Thomas shrugs.

“No, seriously,” says James. “I fucked up and you don’t need to blame yourself for what I did wrong. I know your routines are important. I went too far.”

“Maybe a little,” Thomas admits.

“Sorry I’m not as heavy as I could be. I know this feels better for you when I’m chubbed up.”

Thomas wraps his arms around James and nuzzles his face into the juncture between his neck and shoulder. “Nah, this is perfect. Just stay put for a little while, okay? Like, unless it starts hurting. I think I just need the pressure.”

“If I _have_ to,” James says, but he breathes deep, savouring the scent of lavender vanilla gum and grape e-cig vapour and apple mango tango laundry detergent. It’s his last chance, he knows, to be this close to Thomas. At least until he comes back.

 _If_ he comes back.

He closes his eyes and lets himself drift.

 

* * *

 

Time betrays him again and before he knows it, he and Thomas are standing at the apartment door, struggling to say goodbye. The cab is downstairs and James knows he _has_ to let go of Thomas’s hand, he knows that hanging on won’t keep Thomas there with him, but letting go seems impossible.

“Will you actually be okay without me?” Thomas asks. “If you're in danger, I won't go. You know that, right? You know that I'd stay if me going made you unsafe.”

James carefully mulls this over. He feels shitty, he's exhausted and his whole body hurts, and the thought of waking up tomorrow without Thomas is almost unbearable. He wonders if that means he isn’t safe. Will it be something he can manage? Can he function on his own without having another breakdown, without the temptation to stuff himself with pills? The champagne is still in the fridge, he still has a hoard of medication. Thomas has spoiled him - they haven't been apart for much more than half an hour since Thomas arrived, so he doesn’t know for sure that he can even safely be alone -

Thomas's cell vibrates. He answers the call and says, “yes, I know the cab’s here. Can you just wait a minute? I'm talking to my -”

He falters, and Jem hears something awful there - _patient,_ maybe, or _this sick asshole I'm looking after._ Maybe it's _burden._

“- friend,” Thomas finishes.

“Go,” says James. “Bring me home the tackiest souvenir you can find.”

“Will do. I love you.” Thomas kisses James on the forehead, shoves his phone in his pocket, and disappears out the door.

For a moment, all he can do is stand still. The apartment is so quiet and so empty; it's already strange not to see him lounging on the sofa or slapping the top of a doorway as he passes through it.

So it's time for a distraction. It's time to take inventory.

Thomas hasn't brought anything with him. All of his clothes are still there, packed into James’s drawers and closet like they belong there. The purple hoodie is gone - Thomas doesn't like going anywhere without it - but there's a grey hoodie and a plethora of big, worn t-shirts to choose from. James slips out of his own shirt and pulls one of Thomas's on instead. He carries the grey hoodie with him to the kitchen.

There's a pile of papers on the counter near the fridge, and when he moves closer, he notices they're lists of steps. Thomas making checklists isn't unusual, but James picks up the top one, notices that the first few steps are _Open cupboard; Take out baking sheet; Close cupboard,_ and he realizes just how much Thomas has been struggling. He's read a lot about executive dysfunction but apparently not enough to notice when it's happening right in front of him. It's no surprise Thomas never told him, either; he _knows_ how much work he is, and he _knows_ Thomas needs someone better, more real, to confide in. That meltdown, then - it must have been building up for a while. Thomas usually has a decent handle on them.

He opens the fridge. There are six glass storage dishes there, carefully topped with foil and labelled with heating instructions, all full of food. That gives him three meals for tomorrow, dinner tonight, two meals for Sunday - where did Thomas find time to do all this cooking? Where did Thomas find the _energy?_ James looks through the lists and catches sight of things like _Pick two eggs, Get knife, Wash peppers, MAKE SURE JEMMY HAS FOOD!!!!_ and he makes a tiny noise, one he doesn't realize he's making until he hears it.

He knows he can't waste these meals that Thomas struggled so hard to make, but the thought of eating anything at all makes him feel like garbage. He doesn't deserve any of this. It would be so much easier not to look in the fridge for the next couple of days, to just starve himself like he deserves.

Thomas would realize. Thomas would think he didn’t do a good enough job on those meals. Thomas would be hurt and he wouldn’t say anything because James is so fucking _fragile_ and can’t take _anything._ Thomas would keep it inside and have more meltdowns and it would be all because of James and his ungratefulness and his unending bullshit.

Thomas writes _Jemmy_ differently than he writes other words. The letters are neater. More deliberate.

Suddenly, James feels like he's peeking into something he shouldn't have seen. These lists seem like something intensely private. He shuffles them together into a loose stack and puts them between two cookbooks on the shelf next to the fridge.

“No more looking at those,” he says aloud.

He gathers Little Prick from the windowsill in their - _his_ \- bedroom. The leaves are still droopy - maybe more droopy? It’s hard to tell. A couple look a little translucent. He touches the soil, and it’s still wet from the soaking.

“Get better, buddy,” James whispers.

He carries the pot with him to the living room and settles on the sofa. James cuddles the container like he’d cuddle a stuffed animal or a favoured cat; it rests on his lap and he holds it against him with one arm while he idly channel surfs with his free hand. He misses Thomas already, misses him so much it hurts - how had he survived months without him? How had he managed to power through week after week without his best friend by his side? - but the plant makes him feel less alone.

“You’d better not be going anywhere,” he says to Little Prick. “If TJ gets back and I’ve neglected our son, I’m gonna be in trouble. You know that, right?”

The plant says nothing, but he feels a little better nonetheless. Maybe it can’t reply but it can listen, at least.

It doesn’t matter that there’s nothing else to say. Maybe there will be words eventually and Little Prick will be there to listen, a gentle, constant reminder of Thomas’s love.

 

* * *

 

Jem wakes up Saturday morning and checks on Little Prick before getting out of bed.

More leaves look translucent. There’s something, some white fuzz, that looks almost like mold near the core of the plant.

“Oh no,” James whispers. “Oh no, oh no, oh no -”

He tries to take a deep breath but he finds that his lungs won’t let him. His breathing is shallow and jerky. It takes a few tries to pick up his phone; his hands have gone numb and fuzzy, like they’re separated from the rest of his body by television static. They feel like they’re full of helium.

James manages to call Thomas. The phone rings half a dozen times and each successive ring sends James a little further into an anxiety attack, so by the time TJ finally picks up, he’s gasping for air and struggling to open his throat enough to speak.

“Jackalope,” Thomas says, but James cuts him off.

“Plant,” he manages, and then he barks out a hoarse sob.

“Are you okay, Jemmy? What’s going on?” There’s a voice in the background and then the faint sound of Thomas saying, “no, hold on, Martha, just a sec, there’s something going on with Jem -”

Is James imagining the distant voice saying, “again?”

“Little Prick,” he wheezes. “The leaves are bad - there’s mold?”

“There’s mold on our succulent’s leaves,” Thomas says. The words aren’t directed at him but James hums agreement anyway.

“What kind?” says the distant voice.

“Sempervivum,” says Thomas to Martha, and then, to Jemmy, he says, “you breathe, honey.” There’s a pause, and then Thomas adds, as though to correct himself, “buddy.”

“Is he okay?” James asks.

“Molding means the roots are rotting from severe overwatering, probably,” says Martha, and James _howls._

“Jemmy, Jemmy, hey,” says Thomas, soft, soothing. “You breathe for me, okay? Breathe. Get some air in those lungs. I’ll change my flight and come home today and I’ll be there as soon as I can -”

“I’m gonna commit, I’m gonna commit,” James chokes.

“No, Jemmy, just keep breathing -”

“I was supposed to keep him alive and I _didn’t_ and it’s my fault he’s dead -”

“He’s not dead, it’s okay, Martha says you can cut away the main rosette -”

James makes a soft, pained noise. “That’s gonna save him? For sure?”

“Is it a sure thing?” Thomas asks.

“Nah,” says Martha. “What’s the big deal? They’re, like, five bucks, tops. Just buy a new one.”

“I’ll come home and we’ll try to save him, okay?” Thomas asks. James groans deep in his throat and hangs up the call.

There’s pills in his bathroom - there’s knives in the kitchen -

He opens his closet, crawls in, and shuts the door behind him. After a moment of struggling to breathe, he pulls Thomas’s flannel shirts and hoodies down and arranges them over his lap and around his shoulders. The scent of apple mango tango detergent surrounds him. It makes it a little easier to breathe.

The dark is warm and heavy.

He closes his eyes, buries his face in one of Thomas’s shirts, and sobs.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos water my plants because i totally forgot to do that tonight. fuck. chat to me at [alexangery.tumblr.com](http://alexangery.tumblr.com)


End file.
